I'm Okay, Officer - I Just Busted a Move

Our Hip Hop instructor gave an inspiring pep talk welcoming us to class, but one particular line still haunts me:

"I can teach you all the techniques in the world - but without rhythm, the music will kill you."

Yowie.

He seemed like a nice young man, but after learning he'd recently arrived from Los Angeles, I knew his announcement was a warning.  They take their Hip Hop a lot more seriously in L. A. than we do here in the Midwest, if you catch my drift.

In an attempt to show that I was on his side without resorting to winking, I hopped up and down as he spoke.  I planned to take it very seriously as soon as I knew what to do.

He had recently left a job in L.A. teaching celebrities to follow scripts calling for disjointed limb-flailing.  But his reason for leaving could not possibly have been a Rhythm Death Threat; he proved physically unable to make any gesture - including facial - that was not in sync with the music.

He tried several times to demonstrate what we were doing wrong.  No dice.

Instead, he pointed out our mistakes while gyrating and spinning and waving his arms in a very distracting way.  I am so grateful there was not a test on anything he said.

When I signed up for this class, I implored myself:  Do not embarrass the surrounding 48-state area by succumbing to Jazz Hands.

In my adolescence I called them Traitor Hands, because they zoomed right past jazz's free-spirited FUN state and took on minds of their own.  The only perk was that they kept a five-foot perimeter cleared of other dancers.

I attended a small high school in a small town in the middle of Wyoming - a state that must have paid its highway patrolmen to scatter sharp objects that kept visitors from approaching our valley from any direction.  The same precautions also kept all teenagers inside the city limits, unless we drove something belonging to whichever kid's dad wouldn't notice four flat tires on Sunday morning.  (Here's a belated shout out to Mr. Macky!  Thanks to the super-sturdy rims on his '68 Scout, we made it halfway to Denver one weekend.)

We had exactly one radio station during my entire childhood - its playlist was exclusively country western - so I lost interest in music by age seven because every song repeated the same five words in various configurations:  Y'are, mahrrymee, m'heart, lohnsum and shooooooot. 

My musical salvation arrived on after-midnight airwaves drifting up from Oklahoma City. The Pointer Sisters became my best friends.  But when I asked the scary man at Ben Franklin to order their album, he threatened me with jail time for breaking the sacred rule:  Country Top 400 or Else.

In what still strikes me as an insanely compassionate gesture, somebody in town arranged occasional airlifts of heavy metal bands - dropped in like manna from heaven - to play loud music so we could dance.  Kind of like "Footloose," except for the mind-your-parents part.  Maybe the dads planned those weekends in leave-our-trucks-alone acts of solidarity.

Our favorite dances happened at the Catholic Church because the priest was deaf -but also real nice - and didn't care if the bad kids wandered around the cemetery out back.  Anybody with facial hair could shop at Melody Liquors without an ID, so Rhonda-the-17-year-old (her name for a whole year) kept a keg perpetually stashed by the tombstone with the GIGANTIC angel.

I always stationed myself directly in front of the refrigerator-sized speakers because the eardrum pain took my mind off the steps I couldn't convince my legs to try.  Added bonus - I couldn't hear any criticism of my performance for about five weeks.

My feet were always the first to figure out the song's secret beat.  My knees would join them, and eventually my hips would want in on the action, too.  I would be that main actress from Flashdance - Jennifer Somebody - in spite of the fact that she had not yet been born.

And then?

I'd open my eyes after an accidental face-slap by my own Traitor Hands, and the wheels flew off my performance.  The feet-knees-hips agreement dissolved and I was left with mild seizure activity, punctuated by hands that seemed desperate to stop a crime in progress.

The music in today's Hip Hop class was nice and loud.  Our teacher taught us "House Dancing," which I quickly made my own by choreographing variations:

Brick House Dancing - Here the feet stay perfectly still while the arms waft in a fluttery, curtain-like motion.

House Arrest Dancing - This involves tiny, mincing steps.  Works well if you want to play 'celebrity' and shuffle from table to table stealing drinks.

Burning Down the House Dancing - Close your eyes.  Pretty much just exactly what you'd expect.

To remedy our Midwestern Jazz Feet, the teacher suggested we think about hearing a fun song in the car.  "Your head moves in perfect rhythm, right?"

We all agreed.  He said we just needed to keep that up and let it spread throughout our bodies after we exit the car.

Thank you!

I took his advice on the way home with a favorite song from my youth.  My head started in on cue, but I am so great at steering with my knees that my Traitor Hands joined in before I could stop the car and get out.

A concerned policeman slowed in the next lane.  I ejected the CD with my right foot and clamped my hands on the wheel at ten and two.

Logic dictates I have nothing to fear from being pulled over, but ever since that Citizen's Arrest threat from the Ben Franklin guy, I do not take chances.

I would definitely flunk the dance-a-straight-line test, and though nothing would show up on a breathalyzer, it would all be over but the handcuffing as soon as they checked my Earth, Wind & Fire levels.

I have been trying to steal those guys' identities for years.

(Remember when your weirdo uncle ran away and joined the circus?  Good news!  Next Friday I can teach you all the skills you'll need to join him!)